


Kiss Me, Baby (We Don’t Need No Mistletoe)

by fireaway



Series: Winter Things [1]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Cheesy Kissing or Whatever, Christmas Eve Fluff, F/M, Inspired by an Ariana Grande Song, Michelle Hates Cliches, Strangers to Lovers Kinda, This is a Cliche Anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21560146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireaway/pseuds/fireaway
Summary: “I bet you twenty bucks you’ll consider me a friend by Christmas. In fact, I bet you’ll even let me call you MJ before midnight.”“You’ll lose,” Michelle warns him.Peter dares, “Try me.”Or, the one where Peter and Michelle are stranded at the airport on Christmas Eve, and Peter is confident the two strangers will become friends before midnight. Michelle, on the other hand, is doubtful.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Series: Winter Things [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579435
Comments: 48
Kudos: 272





	Kiss Me, Baby (We Don’t Need No Mistletoe)

**Author's Note:**

> It’s officially the holiday season, and every year, I always listen to Ariana Grande’s Christmas & Chill EP. So naturally, I was inspired. Here we are.
> 
> Not sure if there’s a full plot to this, but regardless, it was fun to write!
> 
> Title from and story inspired by “Wit It This Christmas” 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

**Six hours until Christmas**

“This is the worst day of my life!” Michelle hears someone groan.

Booking a flight from Chicago to Newark for Christmas Eve is probably not her brightest idea. Especially since the Northern Hemisphere is experiencing one of the coldest winters in over seven years, and a blizzard is currently propelling its way through New Jersey and parts of Pennsylvania and New York.

So, of course, the likelihood of making it back in time for Christmas in Queens to spend with her family and her brother’s fiancée is slim to none. East coast winter weather never performs in anybody’s favor. 

Michelle really should have expected this. 

But then again, she had been reluctant to come home in the first place due to a number of petty, trivial reasons. Such as how all of her friends had moved out of the city, the way her parents try and fail to be subtle about their dislike of her job, and how meeting her future sister-in-law does not sound all that appealing considering the stories Michelle had heard. 

Just to name a few. 

When she had arrived at the decision to suck it up anyway and brace herself to return for the holidays, a Christmas Eve flight was all that was available. A few clicks and a flash of her credit card later, she bought the ticket that would fly her to Newark Liberty International. 

Yet all that clicking and credit card number flashing seems useless now that her flight is delayed. _Indefinitely._

The man sitting across from her at the gate slumps in his chair following his outburst, and Michelle just _gets_ it. A delayed flight on the day before Christmas really makes for the worst day of her life too.

“You in a rush to get somewhere?” 

Michelle decides to start a conversation with the slumped man wearing timbs and sweatpants. Because if she’s going to feel miserable, she might as well talk to someone who is feeling the same way. Shared misery and all that. It might help her feel less alone in this crowded airport. 

His eyes shoot up to meet hers. Curls peak out from underneath his beanie, and a checkered scarf wraps around his neck several times over. Sherpa jacket clad arms are folded across his chest, mirroring her, and the bags under his eyes suggest he doesn’t get as much sleep as he should. Also, like her. 

His lips form a thin line.

“Oh, me? I’m in no rush. Not at all. There’s only a little girl who’s expecting to see me tomorrow morning so that I can give her that doll she’s always wanted and also, a very worried woman who will definitely lose sleep tonight if I’m not home in a few hours. Both of them might cry if I don't show up soon.” 

He pauses to stare at her, and Michelle shows no sign of flinching or cowering away. The man shrugs. “But, yeah. _No rush_. You?”

Michelle almost laughs. She can do emotionless _a lot_ better. 

“Oh, me?” she mimics him, “I’ve got a plant I haven’t watered in months and three lights I think I left on in the kitchen.” There is no plant, and there is no kitchen in her nonexistent New York residence, but for the sake of dry humor, she’ll contribute anyway. “So, _I_ , on the other hand, am in a _very_ big rush.”

It takes him a beat or two, maybe four, of just staring at Michelle with her hair piled high on top of her head and a thick science fiction novel resting in her lap, before the man finally cracks a smile. 

She smirks, because _Ha!_ The stranger broke first. 

“The poor plant.” There’s a glint in his eye as he says it. “What if it’s dead by now?”

She sighs and places a hand over her heart. 

“I will be absolutely devastated.”

“And your electric bill,” he continues. Uncrossing his arms, leaning forward, placing his elbows on his knees and his hands joined together. Michelle can practically feel the pull in the space between them. “It probably skyrocketed.”

She shudders. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

He lets out a soft laugh. “I’m very sorry,” he replies with apologetic eyes. He offers, “If anything, you can always buy another plant.”

Michelle quirks an eyebrow.

“With what money if I have to pay off my electric bill?” 

He waves her off.

“It’s only, what? Twenty degrees and decreasing on the East Coast?” He rubs his chin in mock pondering. “Who needs heat and electricity as long as you’ve got a cool plant?”

The lights throughout the airport are too white, too bright, too _fluorescent_. They are not warm or cozy, and they fail to provide her with any bit of comfort in this bustling atmosphere. They lack the ability to energize her, awaken her body or even liven her spirits. 

But this man. This young, handsome and witty man who claims to be having the worst day of his life, such as herself, shares the same comedic relief needed to endure this delayed flight tragedy. 

Michelle drops her novel into her backpack, no longer seeing a need for it.

“Well.” She puffs a loose strand of hair away from her eye as he watches on with amusement. “It seems maybe I’m not too eager to return home to a lifeless plant and a freezing cold apartment. But don’t you worry.” Michelle nods her head in his direction. “You’ll get home soon enough and see your wife and daughter again.” 

She sends him a closed-lip smile and expects to receive the same. Instead of a smile, however, the man kind of just...chokes on air. 

He sputters, “What did you just say to me?” 

Then, she considers _Okay fine, the lights aren’t too bad_ in comparison to the way he looks like he's having the most offensive experience of his life. 

“Did I say something wrong?” 

He shoots up in his chair. Eyebrows knitted and lips turned into a frown. 

“My wife and daughter?”

She gulps and strains her eyes to get a look at his fingers. And well, would you look at that? There is no ring. 

“You said you have a kid and a woman waiting for you at home?” Michelle reminds him of the reason he was in no rush at all, “You mentioned them, like, a minute ago?”

It’s like another fluorescent light bulb flicks on over his head, and the confusion in his brows practically melts away. 

“Ohhhh.” He chuckles, pulling the beanie from his head. Tousled curls fall to his forehead, and he slowly runs a hand through to get them a little decent. Michelle subconsciously picks at her lip. She can’t help but stare. 

“I was referring to my aunt, who worries about me all the time, and to this little girl I know, from somewhere.”

She instantly relaxes. Good. So she didn’t offend him. 

It’s also good that the guy she may or may not be trying to flirt with is _not_ a married man. However, she doesn’t want to dwell on that thought for very long. Flirting with a random stranger while you’re both stranded at the airport because of a snow blizzard sounds like some holiday cliche that comes straight out of a Christmas movie. And Michelle _despises_ those. 

But alas, he runs his hand through his hair again, and Michelle would be lying if she said she wouldn’t be down for it. 

“I misunderstood,” she concedes, “And I apologize.”

He shakes his head with thoughtful eyes trained on her. “It’s all good. No one’s ever mistaken me for a father or a husband before. It’s kind of nice.”

It’s beginning to get a little warm inside the terminal, so Michelle moves to unbutton her coat. He stares.

“So, what doll did you get for her?” She shrugs her coat off and lets it fall to the chair and pool around her waist. 

His eyes cut away as he perks up. “Wanna see?”

Before she has the chance to give him an answer, the man leans down to unzip the black bag at his feet. A hand disappears inside and rummages around, pulling out two different scarves and a UChicago sweatshirt so that he can get a better look inside. His cell phone tumbles out of a side pocket, and Michelle would have nearly had a heart attack if it weren't for his quick hands and the carpeted floor. Until finally, he retrieves a bulky, red figure the size of his head.

“I made it myself. It can talk and move around and stuff.”

Michelle scoots forward in her seat, and he holds it out for her to get a better look. She knows who it is right away. The design of the helmet, the armor, the excruciating detail is impressive.

“That’s Iron Man,” she states the obvious.

He nods with a sad grin. 

“The one and only.”

Their eyes meet, and Michelle shares the same subtle sorrow on his face. It feels personal to him, somehow, the way Tony Stark’s death had felt personal to her too. And she realizes that this man is from New York. He _has_ to be.

“This little girl likes Iron Man?”

He snorts, and then catches himself, kind of embarrassed.

“I’d hope so.” He turns the doll to face him and studies his piece of work. “He was her dad, after all.”

Immediately, the muscles in her jaw go lax, leaving her mouth agape. _There is no way._

“You know Tony Stark’s daughter?” 

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Of course. And you don’t?” 

She scoffs and folds her arms, closing her jaw shut. “I don’t believe you,” Michelle states with her chin held high.

The man huffs, dropping the doll back into his bag. The other scarves and sweatshirt disappearing in there too.

“And why not?”

“Because you’re a stranger!” Michelle exclaims, much to the annoyance of other passengers waiting in close proximity. “And strangers lie.”

Not that she still follows through with the Stranger Danger rule from back when she was a kid. Because Michelle had learned the hard way that sometimes strangers tell the truth. And sometimes the people she thought she could trust lie right through their teeth and straight to her face. So if Michelle had lived the entirety of her twenty four years refusing to talk to strangers, she never would have had the courage to pack her bags and race out of Queens. Never looking back, not even once. 

The only exception is Christmas. Her mom made her promise that Michelle will always come back for the holidays. 

Breaking her from her thoughts and causing her to flinch, the man thrusts his hand forward.

“I’m Peter Parker. Nice to meet you,” he introduces himself, and she hesitates before shaking his hand. The grip is strong and skin is calloused. “There. Not a stranger anymore. Therefore, I’m not lying to you.”

She scratches her temples and frowns, because, _interesting_. A double P? Who is he? Another Pepper Potts?

“I don’t know,” Michelle teases and makes a show of examining her nails. “Sounds fake to me.”

“What sounds fake?”

“Your name.”

Peter squints at her.

_“My name?”_

Michelle knows she’s acting absurd, but honestly, she really can’t help it. Claiming that he’s affiliated with Tony Stark is a _huge_ deal. 

“Yeah, it sounds like you got that from a tongue twister.”

“Oh, really?” He leans back and resumes slumping in his chair. “Which one?”

She refrains from giggling to herself, and with a snap of her fingers, points at him.

“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers.”

Peter groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“You’re right. Sorry.” She clears her throat and corrects herself. “Peter _Parker_ picked a peck of pickled peppers.”

She’s humoring him, she can tell. Because Peter’s biting his lip, trying to hold back a laugh, and Michelle wants to make him break again. Wants to see him crack a _smile_ again.

“I’m not going to sit here while you accuse me of having a fake name.” 

“Am I wrong though?” Michelle tilts her head with a pointed look. “It really does sound like it’s from a tongue twister.”

“You know what? I’ve got a better one.” Peter rests an arm on the armrest and leans his head on his fist. She stares him down, daring him to one-up her. 

“Peter Parker here to pick up a passport, please.”

It’s not bad, Michelle thinks. She lets the phrase run through her mind as she quietly repeats it to herself, testing how it might sound at the tip of her tongue. It’s _alright._

“It’s better, because, you know? We’re at the airport,” Peter tries to explain and gestures to their surroundings, which kind of just ruins the whole thing. “No one’s picking pickled peppers here. But, it’s the airport. And people have, you know? Passports,” he trails off. 

She kind of wants to roll her eyes, and maybe she does, just a little. “I still like mine better though.” 

They sit in silence for, at most, ten seconds. Until Peter can’t help it. He smiles. _There he goes breaking again._

Her stomach may have done a somersault, or somehow captured a hundred butterflies flying around, or twisted and churned and made her skin tingle—But it’s nothing to be alarmed about. She knows it’s merely because she’s exhausted, and she thinks they might be flirting now, and she has to admit, he’s _cute._

“So is your name also from a tongue twister?”

Peter rolls his neck as the clock nears six thirty. They should have been on the plane by now, in the air, and getting a snack or two while they flew. An inflight brownie or a pack of peanuts was supposed to be her dinner for tonight. 

Michelle narrows her eyes. “You just want to know what my name is.”

He tugs his scarf off. “I gave you mine, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t ask for it.”

Peter lets out a low whistle and clutches his chest. 

“Ouch. That one hurt, Jones.”

Michelle eyes widen, and so do his. Her stomach tightens, and despite how cute he is, she panics. 

“How did you know my last name?”

Peter picks up on the fear in her voice, and immediately straightens in his seat, twisting his hands in his lap.

“Wait, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking when I said that. That came out wrong.”

Michelle fists her coat and steels her eyes at him. He needs to explain himself before she makes a run for it. Sometimes, Stranger Danger has a point. 

“The tag on your luggage.” Peter points to the long, flimsy label wrapped around the handle. “It says Jones. That’s how I knew. I swear.”

Oh. Michelle glances downwards, and in big black letters, her last name is stamped across the tag. She relaxes.

_Oh._

“But I shouldn’t have said it like that. I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”

Michelle releases the hold on her coat, giving him a glare. 

“Don’t scare me like that,” she breathes out, “You had me thinking you were a stalker or something.”

“Well, I’m not.” Peter holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m not a stalker. I’m just very observant.”

She looks him up and down and purses her lips. Sounds like something _she_ would say. 

“Huh.” Michelle muses. “Cute.”

He visibly lets out a sigh of relief, and it reminds her to take a deep breath just as an announcement rings through the terminal that their flight is still delayed. _Indefinitely_ , they emphasize. As if she needed that reminder again.

“So, if you’re okay with telling me, what is it?”

Peter rests his head back and fixates on her with hooded eyes, arms crossed and hair messily made, sweatpants hanging low around his waist. Looking like he had just woken up. From his pocket, he retrieves a strip of gum, unwraps it and pops it in his mouth, chewing without ever averting his gaze. And the seat beside him is empty and inviting, Michelle having to grip the armrest to refrain from flying to her feet and sitting next to him.

_Does he know how he’s looking at her right now?_

“Jessica? Jasmine? Juliet?” he asks while his eyes slowly drag from the boots on her feet to the drawstrings on her sweatshirt, lazily trying to figure out what her first name could be. 

_Jeez,_ Michelle thinks, _can he cool it down?_

“Jane?”

“Michelle,” she cuts him off. Shy smile, fighting a blush and all, no longer glaring. “I’m not a Jane.”

“Michelle,” Peter repeats, and this time, he looks at her differently. Like, maybe they’re not strangers anymore. 

She copies, “Peter,” and slightly bows her head, peeking at him through her lashes.

Pushing himself forward, he sits up and rests his elbows on his knees, once again. Michelle mirrors him and smirks.

“Michelle,” he answers.

So. She’s definitely flirting with him, and he’s not hiding the fact that he’s flirting back. Michelle’s not sure how to feel about this, but she’s not going to pretend like Peter doesn’t intrigue her. And maybe this isn’t the worst day of her life as long as he’s joking with her and eyeing her like _that_. 

If this was a movie, they would stare at each other for a while longer, eyes imbued with lust and excitement, before the scene cuts to the two stumbling into a bathroom, desperately clinging and trying to get their hands on each other. It would be disgusting _and_ cliche. 

“My friends call me MJ,” she says before her mind wanders into treacherous territory. 

“MJ,” Peter echoes.

“But you’re not my friend.” Michelle adds, and she’s not sure if she’s imagining it when Peter blushes.

“Bummer,” he exhales, his jaw flexing with every chew of his gum. 

Her throat and lips feel dry. As she swallows thickly and licks her lips, his eyes flicker down to watch. 

Oh, this _cannot_ be happening right now. She needs some air. 

Michelle points to the seat next to Peter’s. 

“Is anyone sitting there?” 

Peter glances to the empty chair and bites back a laugh. Because he knows that _she_ knows that the answer is no.

He shakes his head.

Michelle really needs some air. Good, old, freezing cold winter air that would slap away whatever gross, cliche feeling Peter is bringing out of her. But _maybe_ , she thinks as she looks on with eagerness at his warm smile, maybe she likes his air just a little bit more. 

“Would you mind if I...”

“Please,” Peter responds without a second thought. She gathers her things and moves towards him. “I bet you twenty bucks you’ll consider me a friend by Christmas. In fact, I bet you’ll even let me call you MJ before midnight.”

Michelle plops down and side eyes him. “Now I definitely won’t let you.”

“I think I’d like a good challenge.” He turns and leans in, his elbow bumping hers. “You down?”

Michelle rests back against the chair, tilting her head and twisting her neck to peer up at him. Their faces a little too close to each other. 

She had known before he even asked. 

She’s down. 

She is _so_ down.

“You’ll lose,” Michelle warns him.

Peter dares, “Try me.”

Somewhere in the terminal, someone’s kid bursts into a tantrum, screaming for an iPad or something to keep them busy. Another announcement blares through the overhead speakers about a cancelled flight to JFK and a change of gate for an airline headed to Dallas. There are people snoring around them, hugging their bags to their chests, and cellphones haphazardly plugged in at charging stations and random outlets. The entire airport screams of chaos and unfamiliarity and reminders of how Michelle is hundreds of miles from New York City.

But as she sits here, Peter Parker holds a steady gaze to her. And it feels grounding. It feels familiar. It almost reminds her of home. 

“Yeah, I’m down.”

* * *

**Four hours until Christmas**

“No way.” Michelle shakes her head as she stares down at the calorie-ridden bacon and turkey sandwich and overflowing bowl of fries. “I refuse to accept this.”

When eight o’clock rolls around, Peter and Michelle find themselves in front of the cashier of Summer House, which is kind of ironic considering their little blizzard situation. 

Peter sighs and hands his credit card over to the woman at the check out. 

“Michelle, just eat the damn food.”

As the cashier swipes his card, Michelle cringes.

“Not until you let me pay you back.” She watches as the total rings up and his card is handed back to him. “You don’t need to do me any favors.”

Peter pockets his wallet and meets Michelle’s glare. He huffs. “Oh, trust me. I didn’t do this for you. This was all for _me._ ”

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

Peter tosses a water bottle into the air, catches it, and plants it next to her plate. 

“Your stomach wouldn’t shut up. It was starting to bother me. So _please_ , just _eat_.”

Michelle grabs her tray of food and groans before leaving to find seats. The cashier hands Peter his receipt. “You guys are cute,” she comments.

“Oh, we’re not together.” He gives a tight smile, shaking his head.

But the woman is merely unconvinced, choosing to back away and nod slowly. “ _Right_.”

Within the hour that Michelle has known Peter, she discovers that he has a tendency to get distracted by all noises. And not just the loud, screeching noises coming from children or the vacuum cleaners near the bathrooms, but even by the little ones; the soft, gentle sounds that could lull her to sleep if she’s tired enough. The wheels of her luggage as she easily rolls them over the tile. The quiet melody of “Let It Snow” filtering from one of the shops. The distant chirping of notifications from people’s phones. The mild hum as separate conversations mix together when the pair pass by each gate.

Peter notices them all, and even though he tries not to show that he does, Michelle can tell. Especially when her hunger had gotten the best of her; low growling making her uneasy. However, she didn’t think the growls were that disruptive to anyone until Peter started wincing. Every. Single. Time.

Around seven forty-five, Michelle realized he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Do you wanna grab some food?” he had interjected amidst her retelling of her science fiction novel. 

She merely shrugged. “I would, but airport food is expensive.”

“Don’t worry!” Peter grabbed her arm. “I’ll buy!” 

Before she could even formulate the thought to turn down his offer, Peter had pulled Michelle to her feet and began slinging their bags over his shoulders.

That is how they end up here, sitting across from each other in a fraying booth as Michelle grudgingly munches on a sandwich.

“This food sucks,” she snaps while dipping her fries in barbeque sauce.

“ _Good._ ”

Peter folds his arms on the table, rests his head, and watches her as she eats, probably thankful for the temporary silence that ensues now that her hungry stomach is finally tamed. Michelle rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at him.

“Stop staring, dork.”

“Can’t,” he mumbles into the sleeves of his jacket, “This is too precious.”

She wants to ask why. Why her stomach really bothered him and why his head whipped to the source of whoever’s phone even mildly made a sound. But she also wants to know how. How Peter is able to make out every word in every passing conversation or how a distant song can ring so harshly in his ears. 

Michelle recognizes the irritability, the hypersensitivity in his reactions and thinks maybe it could be anxiety, possibly even PTSD, but she only has a psychology degree to support her suspicions. 

“So,” she starts a different approach instead, “You go to the University of Chicago?

Peter frowns. “How did you know that?”

She picks away a few thick onions from her dinner.

“I saw the sweatshirt when you took it out of your bag.” Michelle shrugs. “I’m observant too.”

“Ah,” he realizes and sits up. “I _used_ to.”

Michelle nods and wordlessly offers a fry to Peter. He declines. 

“Oh, I get it. They kicked you out.”

He rolls his eyes. “No.”

She bites her lip and studies him with teasing eyes. “No?”

“ _No._ ”

“Interesting.”

Peter steals a fry from her plate, and she gives him a look of disbelief. He ignores it.

“Grad school.” He pops the fry in his mouth like a pompous jerk. _Figures._ “I got my PhD in neurobiology just last week.”

“Congratulations, Doctor Parker.” Michelle raises her water bottle in a toast. Calling him by that name causes her skin to heat up, but she decides not to figure out what that could possibly mean. “So if I were to collapse right now, right here on this very floor, would you be able to save my life?”

He drums his fingers on the tabletop, dangerously near her hand.

“I’m not _that_ kind of doctor, but I could do mouth-to-mouth,” Peter answers, and Michelle swears the air escapes her lungs. “I’m CPR certified.”

It would be nice, she imagines, to see what it would feel like, wiping that self-satisfied smirk off his face as he presses his mouth to hers, breathing life into her body. She thinks Peter could do it. Give some _life_ to her, that is. He’s got the wit, the looks, the subtle bedroom eyes meant for her that entice her enough to want to pull him across the table and into the seat with her. Peter could certainly get her blood pumping and her heart racing. Peter _could_ do it.

But she’s not a cliche, and neither is he, Michelle realizes. They can flirt all they want, partake in easy banter, get on each other’s nerves and guess if sparks would fly if they kissed on this horrid Christmas Eve, but perhaps anything more wouldn’t feel as exciting. Because, that is what they are. No longer strangers yet not quite as friends. They are merely Peter and Michelle, connected by unfortunate circumstances and an obvious mutual attraction. 

Not to mention that twenty bucks is riding on the success or failure of their friendship.

“Let’s hope you never have to do that, then.” Michelle covers the short distance between their fingers and pats his hands.

“You don’t think I could do it?”

_Oh, I know you could do it._

Peter steals another fry. She lets him.

“We already made one bet, Peter,” Michelle reminds him. “You’re not tricking me into making another.”

He rolls his sleeves up a few inches, exposing some of his skin. And that action alone shouldn’t make her want him even more, but it does.

“It’s not a trick.” Peter bore his eyes into hers. “And I’m not looking for a game.”

The statement sounds like a promise, but who is she to be so sure? All she knows about Peter Parker is that he claims to be close with Tony Stark’s daughter, is a neurobiologist with a doctoral degree from the University of Chicago, and perhaps has a really weird, kind of abnormal pet peeve to stomach growling. 

It’s not enough information.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Michelle blurts.

Peter, taken aback and stunned, gapes at her, another fry halfway into his mouth.

“Because it just seems like you’re flirting with me. Which is fine, and it’s fun, but we’re strangers. Kind of, sort of, you know? So I just want to know if you have a girlfriend… _or_ a boyfriend! Or _someone_ in your life, because if you do, I don’t think you should be flirting with me.” She stumbles over her words, which is so unlike her, but whatever. “ _If_ you’re even flirting with me at all.”

He drops the fry and averts his gaze with a sheepish smile. She’s onto him. _She knew it._ And Peter is undeniably blushing now.

“You’re flirting with me too, you know?” 

Michelle cuts in, “Am I?”

“And no, I do not have someone in my life,” Peter continues as his eyes find their way back to her. Michelle holds her breath. And she’s not sure how, but it’s obvious Peter can hear it loud and clear. “Does that answer your question?”

So, it’s not enough information, but it’s something. And Michelle can definitely work with something. 

She shrugs and takes another bite of her sandwich.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Peter stares for a while longer, because it’s not a sure answer. Are they friends or aren’t they? 

“Michelle?”

“Yes, Peter?”

He smiles as she says his name. 

“Can I call you MJ now?”

Michelle avoids his eyes, and he deflates. They’re not friends. 

“Sorry, Peter.”

However, when she offers him another fry, there’s still hope for him yet.

* * *

**Two hours until Christmas**

It’s ten o’clock when Michelle realizes that buying a Christmas gift for her brother had completely slipped her mind.

“So you’re telling me, you just… _forgot?_ ”

“Exactly. I just forgot!” she cries out.

“I don’t know.” Peter shoves his hands into his pockets and gives her a doubtful look. “Sounds fake to me.”

Michelle peeks her head out from behind a rack of clothing. “Seriously, Peter?”

“How do you _forget_ to buy your brother a present? Didn’t you say he just got engaged?”

She sighs. Michelle may have left out the minor detail that this is her brother’s third engagement. For the third year in a row. Finding a present for him doesn’t seem to be of that much importance when he has a new fiancée every year. 

“Oh, would you just shut up and help me find something?”

He yields. “Okay, okay. How about this?” Peter’s fingers trace the face of a stunning Michael Kors watch. “Damn, that’s nice,” he comments under his breath.

“Something I can _afford_ , Peter.”

Peter takes a look at the price, and his eyes bug out. “That is way too many zeros.”

“Hey, I could use a little help, please,” Michelle calls out to him as she struggles to lift a heavy object from the floor. He rushes to her side.

“On it!”

Anyone who hangs out with Peter Parker for roughly four hours might not find out that he’s super, ridiculously strong. However, if anyone is _Michelle Jones_ , well, then it’s not very difficult to discover.

Michelle had discovered his unusual strength when she had been watching a YouTube video on her phone, and Peter tried to move his chair closer to hers. 

Except, he didn’t _try_ to move it. He just...moved it. 

And yet, the punchline is the fact that the chairs are not meant to be moved. At all. Because they’re literally bolted down to the floor.

Peter had attempted to play it off, “Ha ha, that’s so weird. I think those bolts were loose,” but he couldn’t fool her. There’s something strange about him; Michelle just isn’t sure what.

“What is this?” he asks as he picks up the object with great ease. Michelle has to give him some credit though, because Peter pulls a face to make it seem like it required a great deal of effort. “Is this a speaker?”

“Yup,” she says with a pop. 

“It’s heavy,” Peter notes, and Michelle dismisses, “I know.”

“It’s also really big.”

His bizarre strength still occupies her mind, which is mainly the reason why she had him lift the speaker in the first place. Michelle wishes she could somehow see through Peter’s jacket, already picturing the strain in his biceps. 

“ _Extremely._ ”

Peter sets the speaker down. She frowns.

“I thought you wanted something you can afford.”

She insists, “I can afford this.”

He crosses his arms. Michelle _really_ wishes she could see his biceps.

“You can afford a speaker, but you can’t afford a watch?”

She steps towards him, bringing her face close to his. “I’m sensing some judgement in your voice, Parker, and I don’t like it.”

His eyes flicker down to her lips, and her breath hitches. Peter seriously needs to stop doing that, because it makes her mind go haywire and her gaze go cross eyed.

“I think you should save your money, Michelle.” His breath is minty fresh against her chin, and it dizzies her. “Because if you recall, we have a bet. And _you’re_ going to lose.”

Michelle backs away, hoping to make him break for the third time that night. 

“We’re not friends, Peter.”

“You’ll change your mind.”

Peter breaks, and he grins, but the sight makes her heart pound in her chest like a drummer boy. Something tells her that he can hear it.

She shakes her head and returns the smile. Friends don’t make her feel the way he makes her feel.

“I don’t think I will.”

At the end of her last minute shopping fiasco, Michelle winds up purchasing a pair of fluffy reindeer socks and an ugly sweater she found on the rack that is a size too large and five vivid colors too many. Her brother is just going to _have_ to like them. 

”You know what, Michelle? I wasn’t going to say anything, but I’m feeling a little left out,” Peter remarks as they exit the shop.

She sighs, because, “ _What now?_ ”

“You haven’t given me anything yet.” He gestures to his empty hands. “Where’s your Christmas spirit, huh? I bought you food. What are you going to buy for me?”

”With what money, when I have an electric bill to pay, two presents that I just got for my brother, _and_ the twenty dollars that you’re so _confident_ I’m going to owe you?” 

She raises an eyebrow, and Peter smirks. _Here we go._

”Well, I’m glad you asked, Michelle. Thank you,” he chirps. “Because of your current financial predicament, and also since I admire you so much, I am willing to accept a gift that doesn’t require purchase or that has any monetary value. Something _priceless_ , so to speak.”

Michelle knows what he’s going to suggest before he even says it. Peter is so predictable, and yet she’s only known him for less than six hours.

”You could offer me your friendship,” he suggests, cracking a small smile, bringing his hand to the back of his neck, and gazing at her with easy eyes. She may have swooned.

She dryly laughs. “Nice try.”

He shrugs.

“Worth a shot.”

When they finally return to their gate, it is almost eleven, and Peter struggles to keep his eyes open.

“You want some of my coffee?” Michelle offers, because of the kindness of her heart, and _not_ because she’s his friend. She waves her tall cup of cappuccino under his nose, and he gets a whiff. Peter cringes, gently pushing it away.

“No, thanks. Caffeine isn’t good for me. I’ll just get some rest.”

She pouts as he shifts in his seat, trying to get comfortable by laying his head on her shoulder.

“Peter,” Michelle whines, “Stay awake and talk to me.”

Next thing she knows, the side of his finger is pressed to her lips.

“Shhhh,” he shushes her. “Be a good friend, and let me sleep.”

Within minutes, Peter dozes off. Michelle angles her face downwards and stares at the soft flutter of his eyelashes and the steady rise and fall of his chest. He’s fast asleep, so she considers it safe to grumble, “I don’t think I want to be your friend.”

Peter snuggles into her neck like he had heard her, like maybe he understands or even agrees.

“Is that cool with you? Not being friends?” she asks into the silence between them. “Are you down for that?”

He answers her with a snore, and Michelle has to force herself not to laugh in fear of waking him up.

* * *

**Zero hours until Christmas**

Five minutes to midnight, Michelle learns that north Jersey and four out of the five boroughs of New York City are experiencing a blackout. 

“Oh _man_.” She thrusts her phone into her bag and startles Peter awake. “I hate this stupid weather.”

The blizzard is finally dying down and fizzling out, but the aftermath is a wide power outage commencing the twenty-fifth of December, affecting all of Newark and two of the three terminals at its airport. 

Peter rubs the sleep from his eyes and yawns. Michelle rests her head on top of his and sighs.

“Peter,” she groans, “We’re never getting home.”

He stretches an arm and reaches to massage her temples. God knows she needs it.

“My parents were expecting me at _nine._ Nine, Peter!” 

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get there before nine.” He pauses for a beat before adding, “Nine in the morning.”

“You’re _annoying._ ” Michelle shakes her head in disappointment, ruffling their hair together.

“True,” Peter agrees. “But aren’t you glad you met me?”

She is, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not all that,” she answers, but he chuckles, like maybe he knows she’s lying.

Drawing patterns on her skin, the pads of his fingers soothe the wild storm in her racing mind. 

“I know I told you that I wasn’t all that excited to visit my family, but Queens is home. And I really want to go home. Don’t you?”

Peter hums in agreement. 

As her thoughts begin to settle, Michelle notes that she’s got three problems. One, she’s exhausted with a terrible headache and unfortunately, she has already used up all of her ibuprofen pills from last week’s all nighters. Two, she misses her warm bed and the comfort of her mother’s arms, but there’s only a few minutes until Christmas, and she’s nowhere near New York. 

And finally three, she’s experiencing cliche feelings for a guy she just met, who’s rubbing her temples and laying his head on her shoulder, and her body is cold. _God, it’s so cold._

He’s not her friend. But he’s not a stranger, and Michelle has the urge to _do_ something about it.

“Peter,” she whimpers, and his fingers pause on her forehead. “Help me.”

They both sit up. He looks at her with questioning eyes.

“I’m cold, Peter.” Michelle parts her lips and wets them. The clock is nearing midnight. It’s now or never. “Can you help warm me up, please?”

Peter nods dumbly, and she lingers her gaze on his lips before closing her eyes. Michelle awaits heat. Whether in the form of his arms or preferably, his lips, she doesn’t care. 

Instead, she hears the unzipping of his jacket. Her eyes fly open. 

“Here.” Peter swings the jacket over her shoulders and wraps her in it like a blanket. “I know you’ve been eyeing my jacket, so you can have it for now.”

Michelle deflates. _Unbelievable._

He tugs the jacket tight and snug around her figure, and then rests his hands on the collar at her neck. Michelle nudges his knuckles with her chin.

“There’s no way I’m not your friend now.” Peter deadpans and pokes at her cheek. “I just gave you my jacket.”

But Michelle can’t think about his jacket or his finally revealed biceps or the prospect of friendship from a guy she really wants to kiss right now. 

She glances at her watch. It’s sixty seconds to midnight, and Michelle decides that she wants to start Christmas Day with Peter Parker’s lips on hers. 

Because he’s not her friend. He never will be. 

“I’m not gonna lie.” Peter takes in the falling bun at the nape of neck and the glimmering studs on her ears, framing her face. “You look a lot better in it than I do.”

His face is void of any emotion as he says it, so Michelle reveals a soft smile, hoping to get him to break, _one last time._

“Do I get to call you MJ now?” Thirty seconds to midnight.

“My friends call me MJ.” Michelle pierces her eyes at his, daring him to crack under its weight. “But you’re not one of them.”

“I’m not?”

She shakes her head. Twenty seconds to midnight.

She gulps, finally knowing for certain that his steady gaze trained on her is the thing she’s been searching Chicago for, for nearly five years. 

His eyes are grounding. Familiar.

And to her, they are a reminder of home.

“My friends don’t look at me the way you do.”

Peter’s eyes travel over her face, reddening her skin and making her blush. Michelle isn’t cold anymore.

“They don’t?”

Fifteen seconds. She exhales as time seems to slow. 

“And I don’t wanna kiss my friends the way I wanna kiss you.”

That’s all it takes to get Peter Parker to break.

His smile is blinding. _Impossibly_ blinding, cheeks stretched and crinkles by his eyes. 

“You don’t?”

She flicks his arm. “Peter!”

Ten seconds.

“Sorry.” He laughs, and her mind short circuits, she practically explodes with anticipation. “Well, what are you waiting for, then?”

“I’m waiting for midnight.”

Peter nods eagerly. “That’s cool.”

Five seconds.

“And also your explicit consent.”

Peter briefly chokes and clears his throat.

“Please kiss me, Michelle.”

Her palms find the back of his head, fingers woven through the curls.

“You lose, Parker.” Two seconds. “You owe me twenty bucks.”

One second. Her blood is pumping, heart is racing. She knew Peter could do it. 

“Merry Christmas,” Peter whispers right as Michelle’s lips meet his. 

Then, the world goes dark, if only for a lingering moment, as they experience the blackout from New York City all the way here in Illinois, in their own special way. With closed eyes, they only focus on the feel of each other, and Michelle’s senses are practically heightened to every caress of his mouth, she could faint. Sitting here in a terminal with fluorescent light bulbs and breaths mingling together, the pressure between their lips is enough to make the temperature rise. It’s warm, _so_ warm, it’s almost hot. Michelle’s skin sears where Peter grips the sides of her face and pulls her in.

 _Closer_ , she thinks. They’re so much closer to home. 

They move slowly with time as it passes them by, yet her heart beats rapidly in her chest, like its traveling hundreds of miles per hour. It could find its way to Queens in a heartbeat. 

“I can hear your heart.” Peter breathlessly laughs as they pull away for a split second. Then, his lips immediately find hers again. 

“How?” Michelle manages to ask in between gentle sucks at the corner of her mouth.

They’re both out of breath when they take a break, foreheads pressed against each other as their noses bump together. 

“I’ll tell you if you let me call you MJ.”

“Hey.” Michelle pouts. “That’s bribery.”

He smirks. "Maybe so. Is it working?"

She scoffs with a roll of her eyes. " _No._ "

“I’ll tell you one day, then.”

 _One day._ Who knew two words could excite her this much?

Michelle holds his chin and leans in to plant another kiss on his lips. 

“We’re not friends,” she reminds him. Friends don't kiss like they do, and they certainly don't kiss in the middle of an airport on Christmas Day.

“Noted. So, how about another bet? I bet we could be _more_ than friends by the time the New Year hits,” Peter responds and pulls away from her. She misses him instantly. “Are you down?”

Sometime today, hopefully soon, Peter will slip Michelle a twenty dollar bill before they part ways to board the plane. Fate may see to it that they hold neighboring seats, so if he falls asleep on her shoulder for the second time, then she wouldn't mind it one bit. And once they land, they will reunite with their families and open presents and celebrate Christmas the only way they know how to: by the tree with the people they love despite hardships, despite the brutal weather, despite _everything_. The season calls for the feeling of love and home all at once, so Michelle knows the answer. She has always known.

“I’m down for that.”

Peter smiles. 

Michelle is down. She is _so_ down.

**Author's Note:**

> Guys. _Guys._ I’m so excited for the holidays, I could scream.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, and please let me know if you did!
> 
> say hi on tumblr: [@rockyblue](https://rockyblue.tumblr.com)


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